Play & Book Excerpts
Be Brave. Lose the Beige!
(She Writes Press)
© Liz Kitchens
The Purloined Pigskin
One of my prized possessions is a game ball from the Outback Bowl played at Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, Florida, on January 1, 2010. The game matched the Northwestern University Wildcats against the Auburn University Tigers.
I rarely follow football. I don’t know the names of quarterbacks or coaches or the difference between a safety and a wide receiver. Nor do I understand the rules of football. For example, why are four downs needed to make a first down? The redundancy baffles me. I do, however, nominally follow one college football team, namely the Northwestern University Wildcats, my son’s graduate school alma mater. He absolutely loves this Big Ten team, and because I love him, I love what he loves.
My son, his then girlfriend (now wife), his dad (my former husband and another Northwestern alum) and I arose at 7:00 a.m. New Year’s Day to make the hour and a half drive through pelting rain to attend the 11:00 a.m. Outback Bowl game. We joined a sea of purple paraphernalia when we took our seats in the end zone.
It rained. And rained. And rained. Northwestern did not fare well. The players from Auburn University dwarfed the NU team. We were down by two touchdowns at halftime. Things were looking bleak for our beloved team. During halftime, as we dried out under cover at the concession stand, I suggested leaving after the third quarter if the weather conditions didn’t improve. Even my son, a die-hard fan, agreed.
But during the second half, the weather did improve. Ponchos and parkas were discarded. NU came back in the third quarter and tied the score. The fans in Northwestern purple launched themselves into a frenzy, jumping up and down and high-fiving total strangers. Auburn scored again, however, and the kicker lined up to kick the extra point. The field crew, distracted by Auburn’s excessive celebration, failed to raise the net behind the goal post in time to catch the ball, so the pigskin sailed over the end zone, over the goal post, and into my son’s seat. Fans all around scrambled for the ball. Amid the chaos, David scooped it up and tucked it beneath our pile of ponchos.
It’s a weird feeling having an entire stadium look in your direction anticipating the return of the game ball. But our band of brothers decided to do nothing, which seemed to work because the game resumed with a new ball. After about ten minutes, I said to my son, “Why don’t I put the ball in my backpack?” No one will think a fifty-seven-year-old woman is interested in keeping a football. So I did, transferring my wallet, Kleenexes, iPhone, keys, etc., elsewhere to accommodate the bulky ball. I then proceeded to watch an exciting quarter of football, albeit with a pounding heart.
I swear, my son was not raised to steal. Neither was I. Neither was our fellow coconspirator, his dad, at the time a circuit judge. We simply assumed the same rules for baseball games applied to football games. At a baseball game, you get to keep the errant ball if it comes your way. And who cares anyway? College football is a multi-billion-dollar industry in which everyone but the players make tons of money. I assumed they could afford extra balls.
Well, count me wrong in that assumption. In short order we heard a booming voice behind us say, “Somebody’s going to jail tonight if that football isn’t returned.” We turned around to see a police officer threading his way through the end zone, pointing an accusing finger at my son. The policeman looked like a southern cop straight out of Hollywood’s central casting—burly and big bellied, scowling, and speaking with a southern drawl. David’s outstretched hands were empty as was the rain gear he held up for inspection. After questioning adjacent fans, he turned a suspicious eye on me. I’m told I looked like a flasher as I opened and closed my raincoat as if to say, “I have nothing to hide.” The officer pointed to my backpack saying, “I assume there’re just clothes in that bag of yours.” I don’t think I responded. I can’t remember. I was so scared. The cop persisted in his menacing intimidation. “I’d like to take one of these entitled brats down to the station,” he groused. I pulled my lawyer/current judge/former husband over to my side and said, “Here’s a dollar. I’ve officially hired you to represent me.”
I was a wreck. My stomach was churning, and I decided to return the ball. But just before I gave up the goods, a raucous celebration had broken out when Northwestern scored another touchdown forcing the game into overtime. Adjacent fans were screaming and jumping up and down, distracting the cops from our caper. Maybe I wouldn’t have to make the walk of shame after all, and maybe we could actually keep this hard-earned ball. The game finally ended. I stripped off my Northwestern purple so I’d no longer look like a fan, and my lawyer/ judge/former husband and I, with the purloined pigskin in tow, exited the stands one way as my son and co-alums departed in the opposite direction. We were immediately swept up into the crowd and out of the stadium. As we made our way to the car, I refused to say a word about the crime for fear of being overheard. And I didn’t hear my cell phone ringing as my son frantically tried to reach me, thinking we’d been stopped or seized. In hindsight, our level of paranoia might have been out of proportion relative to the potential consequences. I was probably experiencing flashbacks, harkening back to a 1960s fear of “the fuzz.”
Eventually, we all rendezvoused back at our car, but no one was allowed to open the backpack until we were out of Hillsborough County. I had visions of roadblocks set up to search departing cars for the filched football.
The next day, still shaken from our petty larceny, the fabulous five signed the ball to commemorate the experience. I signed as “Lightfingers Liz Kitchens.” I guess my propensity for selective rule-breaking was in force that day. (Obviously my son inherited this tendency as well.) While admittedly nerve-wracking, the event became a memorable family experience.
Oh, by the way . . . the Auburn Tigers ultimately won in overtime 38 to 35. Damn.
One of my prized possessions is a game ball from the Outback Bowl played at Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, Florida, on January 1, 2010. The game matched the Northwestern University Wildcats against the Auburn University Tigers.
I rarely follow football. I don’t know the names of quarterbacks or coaches or the difference between a safety and a wide receiver. Nor do I understand the rules of football. For example, why are four downs needed to make a first down? The redundancy baffles me. I do, however, nominally follow one college football team, namely the Northwestern University Wildcats, my son’s graduate school alma mater. He absolutely loves this Big Ten team, and because I love him, I love what he loves.
My son, his then girlfriend (now wife), his dad (my former husband and another Northwestern alum) and I arose at 7:00 a.m. New Year’s Day to make the hour and a half drive through pelting rain to attend the 11:00 a.m. Outback Bowl game. We joined a sea of purple paraphernalia when we took our seats in the end zone.
It rained. And rained. And rained. Northwestern did not fare well. The players from Auburn University dwarfed the NU team. We were down by two touchdowns at halftime. Things were looking bleak for our beloved team. During halftime, as we dried out under cover at the concession stand, I suggested leaving after the third quarter if the weather conditions didn’t improve. Even my son, a die-hard fan, agreed.
But during the second half, the weather did improve. Ponchos and parkas were discarded. NU came back in the third quarter and tied the score. The fans in Northwestern purple launched themselves into a frenzy, jumping up and down and high-fiving total strangers. Auburn scored again, however, and the kicker lined up to kick the extra point. The field crew, distracted by Auburn’s excessive celebration, failed to raise the net behind the goal post in time to catch the ball, so the pigskin sailed over the end zone, over the goal post, and into my son’s seat. Fans all around scrambled for the ball. Amid the chaos, David scooped it up and tucked it beneath our pile of ponchos.
It’s a weird feeling having an entire stadium look in your direction anticipating the return of the game ball. But our band of brothers decided to do nothing, which seemed to work because the game resumed with a new ball. After about ten minutes, I said to my son, “Why don’t I put the ball in my backpack?” No one will think a fifty-seven-year-old woman is interested in keeping a football. So I did, transferring my wallet, Kleenexes, iPhone, keys, etc., elsewhere to accommodate the bulky ball. I then proceeded to watch an exciting quarter of football, albeit with a pounding heart.
I swear, my son was not raised to steal. Neither was I. Neither was our fellow coconspirator, his dad, at the time a circuit judge. We simply assumed the same rules for baseball games applied to football games. At a baseball game, you get to keep the errant ball if it comes your way. And who cares anyway? College football is a multi-billion-dollar industry in which everyone but the players make tons of money. I assumed they could afford extra balls.
Well, count me wrong in that assumption. In short order we heard a booming voice behind us say, “Somebody’s going to jail tonight if that football isn’t returned.” We turned around to see a police officer threading his way through the end zone, pointing an accusing finger at my son. The policeman looked like a southern cop straight out of Hollywood’s central casting—burly and big bellied, scowling, and speaking with a southern drawl. David’s outstretched hands were empty as was the rain gear he held up for inspection. After questioning adjacent fans, he turned a suspicious eye on me. I’m told I looked like a flasher as I opened and closed my raincoat as if to say, “I have nothing to hide.” The officer pointed to my backpack saying, “I assume there’re just clothes in that bag of yours.” I don’t think I responded. I can’t remember. I was so scared. The cop persisted in his menacing intimidation. “I’d like to take one of these entitled brats down to the station,” he groused. I pulled my lawyer/current judge/former husband over to my side and said, “Here’s a dollar. I’ve officially hired you to represent me.”
I was a wreck. My stomach was churning, and I decided to return the ball. But just before I gave up the goods, a raucous celebration had broken out when Northwestern scored another touchdown forcing the game into overtime. Adjacent fans were screaming and jumping up and down, distracting the cops from our caper. Maybe I wouldn’t have to make the walk of shame after all, and maybe we could actually keep this hard-earned ball. The game finally ended. I stripped off my Northwestern purple so I’d no longer look like a fan, and my lawyer/ judge/former husband and I, with the purloined pigskin in tow, exited the stands one way as my son and co-alums departed in the opposite direction. We were immediately swept up into the crowd and out of the stadium. As we made our way to the car, I refused to say a word about the crime for fear of being overheard. And I didn’t hear my cell phone ringing as my son frantically tried to reach me, thinking we’d been stopped or seized. In hindsight, our level of paranoia might have been out of proportion relative to the potential consequences. I was probably experiencing flashbacks, harkening back to a 1960s fear of “the fuzz.”
Eventually, we all rendezvoused back at our car, but no one was allowed to open the backpack until we were out of Hillsborough County. I had visions of roadblocks set up to search departing cars for the filched football.
The next day, still shaken from our petty larceny, the fabulous five signed the ball to commemorate the experience. I signed as “Lightfingers Liz Kitchens.” I guess my propensity for selective rule-breaking was in force that day. (Obviously my son inherited this tendency as well.) While admittedly nerve-wracking, the event became a memorable family experience.
Oh, by the way . . . the Auburn Tigers ultimately won in overtime 38 to 35. Damn.
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Liz Kitchens is a rare and endangered species born and raised in Orlando, Florida. Her memories of the sweet scent of orange blossoms and of the salty scrubbiness of the landscape pre-dates Walt Disney World. This geographical legacy, sandwiched between the frolicking waters of the Atlantic Ocean and Gulf Coast, inspired her playful spirit and informs her writing.
Liz conducts workshops and seminars on creativity and directed a creative arts program for teens in underserved communities. She has also been a market researcher for thirty-five years and is the founder of What’s Next Boomer?, a website dedicated to helping boomers navigate retirement options, and of the blog, Be Brave. Lose the Beige, which focuses on issues facing women of the baby boomer generation. She is a contributing writer for the online magazine, Sixty and Me, and has been published in various online and print publications. Liz is married, the mother of three adult children, and the grandmother of three grandchildren. |
Photo Courtesy: Liz Kitchens
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